


through the grapevine

by pelinal



Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Other, mentions of iovara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-14 23:25:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16050725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelinal/pseuds/pelinal
Summary: He gestures languidly for you to sit, and you do. The squat, wicked stool forces you upright, lofting your chin to look him in the eye. His gaze tells you he knows your discomfort, and doesn't care to dispel it.





	through the grapevine

Thaos is never without that ghastly helmet, and yet when he calls you in it is absent—not only from his person, but from the room altogether. This is utterly disquieting and it kicks your heart into the beginnings of a panic. He gestures languidly for you to sit, and you do. The squat, wicked stool forces you upright, lofting your chin to look him in the eye. His gaze tells you he knows your discomfort, and doesn't care to dispel it. Your heart continues its pounding frenzy. For a moment, you're certain he wants you to speak first, and the thought turns your lungs to ice. Parting your lips is like trying to pry a boulder from its resting place, and a wasted effort: he speaks before you've made a sound.

"Iovara," he says. Nothing more. He's testing you, wants to see your jaw clench or your hand make a fist in the dark fabric at your knee. You make no move, although lightheadedness is creeping up on you.

"I-Iovara," you return at last, wincing as you hear her name tumble from your clumsy mouth. "My lord?"

"You have pledged yourself still to the heretic." Thaos pauses, waiting perhaps for you to defend yourself. You know damned well the words would be your last. "We will do far worse to her before her trial is over."

"Yes, my lord," you say, straining to keep your expression and your body language impassive. But there are always chinks in the armor. Before you realize it you are searching his face, taking in the features that were obscured by his headpiece. He looks frightful, you think, frankly, his skin approaching purple in its pallor and the veins beneath it bold as ink. The corners of his mouth are etched deep into his flesh and his resting expression is a craggy scowl—neutral as always, completely emotionless, but in your anger he seems to you a beast and you curse the cruel, idiot slant of his mouth, wanting to erase it, to make it smile or scream or _something_ other than—

Thaos cocks a barely-there eyebrow. You feel your eyes widen, your jaw go slack, and you don't attempt to stop yourself. "I—I let—I—I extend to you, my lord, my humblest apologies—" His expression doesn't change; he seems content to let you struggle for words yourself. "It's—not to excuse—of course, but I—my lord, it's the onl—it's that—I—I—I find myself in turmoil, I've tried so hard to—" He holds up a hand, and you involuntarily stutter "to" a few more times before your cretin tongue will quiet. You're trembling all over now, no point in trying to mask it.

"Look at me," he says icily, and you realize you've been staring into your lap, and that your arms have crossed themselves protectively across your chest. You smooth out these mistakes, slowly, breathing hard, and raise your eyes to his. They are bleary, you find, and sleepless, so that his pale, blotchy irises seem to blend with the pink whites. He's better served wearing the mask. "I place great value in you, Inquisitor. Will you hazard a guess as to why?"

"I don't know, my lord." You know better. That never saves you.

"I will permit you to try again."

You sigh, and immediately try to cover the sound with a cough. Even were Thaos a normal man, the beating of your heart must be audible at a hundred paces, and you're bathed in sweat. You mentally run through your traits with the fervor of a man escaping a burning house. "My—my resolve?"

"Certainly not. It is your spirit. Your moral compass. I have found it most commodious. It needs only to be. . .adjusted," he savors the word, "every so often." He leaves a heavy silence in the air. You think to fill it with a thoughtless 'yes, my lord', but you'd only dig yourself deeper into whatever this is. After what feels like hours, days, millenia, Thaos reaches out a hand. A narrow hand—a scholar's hand, delicate, the fingers tapered, but the skin is gnarled with the callouses of grueling, difficult work. He touches your cheek lightly—hesitantly, you might even say, if it were another. His fingertips are cold. "I could have taken you for my own, my Inquisitor." _His_. You try not to fidget. "I have considered often how powerful the Key might be, could it truly function as one. Quite often. You especially. . .your mind is vast, and to sculpt it into the form of my choosing. . ." something twinges in his expression, and he withdraws his hand, slowly as ever. "But I do not. I refrain. Why do I refrain?"

This one you know, although your hands are still clammy and your body still urges you to shout every curse you know and run to the other end of Eora. "That would be antithetical to the aims of the Leaden Key, my lord."

"Would it?" he asks, idly. "If it were in service to the proliferation of the faith?"

A test again. You grind your teeth as you consider your answer. "Yes, my lord. We intend to spread word of the truth, not enslave by means of lies. . .as does Iovara," you add cautiously, feeling hot betrayal well up in your chest, thinking of the burns on your lover's face, the look in her eyes when she found it was _you_ who doomed her. . .

"And should this fool notion of mine be in fact the truth," Thaos' lip quirks, "there will never be a need to force it on the unwilling. Truth is to kith as the subtle, inevitable force of the Wheel."

"Just so, my lord."

"Very well." Thaos stands, and you rise as well. "Pity that the heretic has entwined herself so thoroughly within your soul." He takes your face in his hands and presses his lips to your forehead for a moment. "I should have liked to take a piece. . .for study."

**Author's Note:**

> this is a huge mess—you know when it's 3am and 56 billion thoughts are running through your head?


End file.
